One night in Rome. One car. One dead scientist. Italian police investigate, but in the end, all they have are kind words for the new widow. Months later, a video emerges challenging the facts. Had he stepped into traffic, or was he pushed? The widow returns to the police, where there are more kind words but no answers. Exit the widow

Enter Diamond. One name for a woman with one purpose. Resurrecting her CIA cover, she follows the shaky video down the rabbit hole. Her widow’s run unearths a plethora of suspects: the small-time crook, the mule-loving rancher, the lady in waiting, the Russian bookseller, the soon-to-be priest. Following the stink greed leaves in its wake reveals big lies and ugly truths. Murder is filthy business. Good thing Diamond likes playing dirty.

"TG Wolff's novel is for crime-fiction fans who like it action-packed and hard-edged. Written with feisty panache, it introduces Diamond, one of the most aggressive, ill-tempered, and wholly irresistible heroines to ever swagger across the page." --David Housewright, Edgar Award-winning author of Dead Man's Mistress

“Dixon.” It was the resigned statement you used when a kid straight up beat you at your own game.

“Hey Diamond.” Chips crunched in my ear. “How’s Italy?”

“How’d you get this phone number?”

“I called myself from it last night.” A bag crackled in the background.

“When and where was I?”

“When you went to the bathroom. You said make yourself comfortable.”

I wasn’t gone three minutes, not three minutes. “And you took it as an invitation to steal my phone number?”

“You know, for emergencies and stuff.” Either he had shoved another fistful of chips into his mouth or he had wadded up the bag into a ball and was gnawing on it.

“Dix, you put one more chip in your mouth and I’m going to swim across the Atlantic and give you a chip bag colonoscopy.”

He laughed. “That’s something old people get, right? Something like a camera up the butt?”

It’s hard to physically intimidate someone who lived day in, day out with violence. You know. Been there, done that, got the black eye. The one he’d gotten for his birthday still had days until it would fade.

“Yeah, Dix. I hear it comes with good drugs though. So, who is she?”

This time he glugged liquid, finishing it with a sloppy lip slap. “Who is who?”

“You know who.”

“Do who know you?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Dix, you’re making my head spin. You texted me you know ‘who she is.’ Tell me who she is while I’m still young enough to care.”

“Oh. Her. Ilsa Dumanovskaya. I’m not making it up either. Musta sucked to spell her name in kindergarten. Least her parents gave her a short first name.”

I leaned against an ice-cold plaster wall, prepared to commence head pounding. “Why should I care?”

“Because of Doc.” Doc. That was the nickname the kids at the YPF gave Gavriil. He liked the stories I brought home and showed up one afternoon. It wasn’t even “take your husband to work day.” I found him arguing with the science teacher over a chemical equation. They got past their chalkboard differences, created a bouncy-ball polymer, then had contests to see which formula bounced higher. The kids loved it. Gavriil came in once a week for lecture and the occasional spontaneous laboratory experiment.

“She’s the woman he met in Rome.”

My chin snapped up. My heart beat in double time. I had her face, now I had her name. I signaled Carlo for pencil and paper. “Give it to me.”

“She owns a bookstore. I have the address for her store and her apartment. Do they call them flats?”